Sometime I wonder why I was even born. I’m sitting here on this July’s day looking out my window the sun light dazzling and the heat is dense. There are children out playing in the fields, there whole lives in front of them. Playing in the green grass, oblivious to the cruelness of the world. So innocent, so pure, their stories yet to be written. What I would give to be in that situation again. I would do everything differently. I wouldn’t care what people thought of me and I wouldn’t play it so safe. I would be daring and follow my dreams. Maybe I would be a world famous musician or discover the cure to an illness or fall in love. Whatever it was I wanted to do, I would chase it and work for it noon and night until I got it. I would make my life exceptional.
But it’s too late for me. I had my chance, but I played it safe and took the easy way, terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone. I thought that was the best idea, but it got me nowhere. Here I am, on my 87th birthday, alone like I always have been, rocking back and forth in my old rocking chair. My life’s over, I sit here just waiting to die. My page has been written and I hate the fact that it is such a boring, irrelevant page to this world. Soon I will die, and even sooner I will be forgotten. It’s too late, my life is meaningless. I only pray for these children in front of me, that they will be braver than I was.
